


A Hard Day's Night (That Was)

by heyguysitsher



Category: We Happy Few (Video Game)
Genre: "Messing Around", 1960s, Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Hastings Being A Stupid Depressed Piece Of Work, Awkward Sexual Situations, British Slang, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Drug Use, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It With A Twist, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Teenage Sexual Exploration, Morally Ambiguous Character, Percy Hastings Being The Only Good Person In This Franchise, Period Typical Attitudes, Sally Boyle Did Nothing Wrong, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Simon Says "Be A Good Fucking Human Being", Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Rebellion, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Underage Smoking, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27870202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyguysitsher/pseuds/heyguysitsher
Summary: "Dear Sally,I love holding your hand. I loved laughing with you, and listening to you, and holding you when you cried...I didn't love waking up quite so much though. Maybe next time, I'll try not to do that."Years after escaping Wellington Wells to a bunker on the English countryside, Arthur accidentally overdoses on leftover joy and spirals into a bad trip where he must figure out which of his memories are real, and which are fake, and must cope with the realization that his past wasn't as set in stone as he had previously imagined.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings & Percival Hastings, Sally Boyle & Arthur Hastings, Sally Boyle/Arthur Hastings
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	A Hard Day's Night (That Was)

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, here again, writing for a nearly dead fandom. Ah, well. If you're here, thanks for making it. We Happy Few has gotten me through the tail end of 2020 (I hope) and is one of my few sources of Joy, no pun intended, in my crazy life. 
> 
> Just a brief content warning before we start, as I am an avid promoter of fiction responsibility! And I figured I'd spice it up by having Uncle Jack explain it. 
> 
> "Hello my Nieces and Nephews, Lovely Day for it, it's your friend Uncle Jack! 
> 
> Before we begin tonight's programme, I have been told to begin with some brief announcements of contents that could be perceived as 'Downer' material. It's not gratuitous, but we at the WWBC like to be careful, so this is an official warning in case you might want to take some extra Joy beforehand!
> 
> This fic contains some troubling elements that the author is NOT attempting to condone or glorify: 
> 
> There are some mentions of sexual exploration that are underage by American standards, (although the age of consent in 1960s England was 16), along with rebellious teen behaviors the author DEFINITELY does not condone, such as drinking, smoking, and canoodling in disreputable circumstances. 
> 
> In an effort to appreciate and delve into the source material to flesh out characters, the fic also contains mention of Sally's unfortunately troubled past involving possible abuse and coerced sexual activity. There is NO explicit description of anything, but the very subject itself may be troubling for some viewers. 
> 
> Another tidbit: seeing as one of the characters is Autistic in an era and circumstance in which they are unfortunately misunderstood, there are a few iterations of this character being referred to rather rudely, or with old notions, we don't use in this enlightened age. 
> 
> The same goes for any kind of sexual deviance we now refer to as being on the LGBT+ spectrum! Shocking in the formative years of our protagonists; no form of bigotry is exhibited by the outside world, but a few characters may express discontentment from time to time as they are learning more about themselves, here in the Swingin' Sixties. Of course, no slurs whatsoever are present, but it's worth noting all the same. For what it's worth, our humble author also wrote in to say that she is, in fact, LGBT and neurodivergent herself, in case that helps things. 
> 
> Finally, this being a We Happy Few Fic, there is also mention of drug use and a fair amount of violence. Proceed at your own risk. 
> 
> Goodness! Well, we can't have that! Be sure to take extra Joy for those chapters, and remember-
> 
> This fanfiction is divided into vignettes or bite-sized 'episodes' for your viewing pleasure. If the subject matter of one of the chapters offends you or you dislike it, go ahead and skip it, as none of the episodes are truly connected! 
> 
> The only person who will ever have to relive these moments vividly and without shield or mercy, is, of course, dear old Arthur himself, and, well, who cares about a Downer anyhow? Ha ha! 
> 
> Now that's over with, sit back, relax, and enjoy WWBC's thrilling television drama, in Brand New Technicolor: A Hard Day's Night!
> 
> My, that's a clever title isn't it? I think it's referencing something, but of course, I can't remember what!"

“Tea, tea, t-t-tea, tea. Tea tea tea.”    
  
A tone-deaf mindless sort of sing-song echoed in the empty house. Empty for one man, that is. Currently bent on tearing his kitchen apart.    
  
“Tea tea tea tea. Wheeeere the fuck did I put you?”    
  
The melody grew more strained and urgent as tin refused to appear. Sugar, flour, biscuits. The man set those aside. They were, after all, the good kind, with the jam. 

“Tea tea tea. Where is the tea? Teaaaaa for Arthurrrrr-”    
  
At last! His hands found something square and metal at the back of the far cabinet. With a noise of triumph, he pulled it out. 

“Tea for me! Ah, that rhymed didn’t it?” He drummed his fingers triumphantly on the metal lid.    
  
“Maybe I should write songs! I might have a talent for it, eh? Eh?”    
  
He eyed his reflection in the hallway mirror.    
  
A tall, thin, gangling man in blocky specs looked back at him.   
  
Somewhere in his  _ very _ early forties, but you wouldn’t know it except for the traces of salt and pepper that had begun creeping at his temples. The rest of his hair was inky black, and mildly greasy, as thought it had been a while since the wills of society had ordered his hygiene about.    
  
Olive skin, bushy caterpillar eyebrows. Big ears and an even bigger nose his mother used to insist he'd “grow into”, although he never had. 

  
Haunted eyes, that could frighten you if you stared into them too long. Long, thin fingers and calloused palms, still scarred from the memory of gripping a head knocker.    
  


Arthur Hastings glowered at the man in the mirror. “Oh, you’re no fun, are you? You great sad prick.”    
  
Tea retrieved, he set to work putting the rest of the food back into their places.    
  
“I ought to have you covered up, you know? I’m sick of seeing your mopey mug everywhere. And for god’s sake, do something about your hair, will you? Look at you, you wastrel. You could never get a job at the Parade looking like that.”    
  
The man in the mirror just stared at him.    
  
“What are you looking at?” snapped Arthur. “Oh, you think I’m going mad, do you? Talking to my own reflection. Well, I’m not! You know perfectly well we’ve nobody to talk to out here. I’ve gone mad a few times, I should know what it feels like.”    
  
He slammed the cupboard door shut, popping the cap on the tin of tea bags and sliding the kettle onto the stove.    
  
“Of course, I’d have every right to go mad, if I liked.” He added, defensively, as an afterthought.   
  
He cut a final bitter look at the mirror. “I’m trapped in a bunker with the man who ruined my life.”    
  
He turned the tap on the sink. There was a weak, gutternal sputter. A few drops trickled out, and he hastily caught them in the kettle, but no more came after.    
  
“What the-” He gave the faucet a solid smack with the base of his palm. A few more drops trickled. He fiddled with the taps again, turning them back and forth.    
  
“Ugh, you’re joking. All this trouble to move to the countryside, and we don’t even get enough rain! Why can’t anything be easy...”    
  
He looked petulantly down at his teapot again.    
  
“I must have something to fill you with. Hang on, old girl.”    
  
He rifled through a few more cabinets.    
  
Saltpeter, V-Meat, rose petals, old bandages. He really was a pack rat.    
  
“Huh..” A loose train of thought sent him rifling through his old gear. He ducked into the airing cupboard, pushing aside a jimmy bar, a heavy rubber suit, a molitilene tank and dubious pair of blue gloves-    
  
“A-ha!” He whirled back around with a pair of canteens, one in each hand. They were battered and rusted, but when he rattled them, they sloshed with contents.    
  
Arthur plopped them both on the counter and adjusted his spectacles, hunching down to giving the canteens the old once-over.    
  
It occurred to him how weird it was that he still had this stuff.   
  
There was every possibility it was normal water of course, he’d journeyed a long way from Wellington Wells to make his way here. But all the same…    
  
What if one were Joy-spiked? Or both! How could he tell? The premise was concerning.    
  
He ran his thumb over the surface of the metal. He could swear he felt some sticky residue. Could it be from an old label, warning ‘Beware’? Or was he just imagining things? He carried a lot of sticky items around. Duct tape, jars of honey. Been in a lot of sticky situations too, pun wryly intended.   
  
It seemed the morning would be more of an adventure than he had anticipated.    
  
Of course, he should really throw these away. Plus he couldn’t imagine it would taste very good.

And..yet…   
  
He turned the canteens over in his hands.    
  
It had been so long since he’d taken a risk.  Hidden away in his own little world, he’d finally found peace and quiet, and thrown himself in, whole haul.  The most dangerous choices he made were whether to eat Wheaties or Sugar Flakes. Work on his writing or bunk off and read. Take a trip to the market or stay home in bed.    
  
But here he was posed with his first truly chilling risk in years.    
  
Though two canteens were literally before him, two metaphorical paths also presented themselves.    
In one, the promise of a warm, fresh steamy cuppa. Very tempting.   
In the other, the sinister mystery of the unknown. A half-forgotten dream of color and light. The flutter of a butterfly’s wing. 

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He jostled the containers again; tested the weight of each in his hands. Identical. Just his luck.    
  
He popped the cap on each one and gave it a cursory sniff, even though he knew damn well it would do no good. Joy had no smell.    


The canteens were dank and acrid. Like still water or marshland...

What was the worst that could happen, really? True, saying that was always dangerous, but  _ really _ \-    
  
All residual Joy must be flushed out of his system by now? He was alone in his room, a long way from Wellington Wells and its denizens. He triple-checked the security on the house every night, and even so, he couldn't think of a soul who would know where to find him, surrounded by trees, on a worthless stretch of hillside in Doddington bloody Kent bloody Downs. 

He had no plans for the day. His typewriter sat silently on his desk, but he did not hear its siren call.    
  
So what if he took an impromptu trip back UP memory lane? He had his journals, his photographs. He was prepared for the worst. 

And _God_ , he really could go for a cup of tea. How was he supposed to start his morning without one?   
  


"Right. Bottoms up!" Said Arthur, to nobody in particular, and he took a testing swig from the canteen on the left. 

It had notes of mold and aluminum after being stale for so long, and he winced and smacked his lips a few times, reacting to the taste. 

Otherwise? Normal. 

He waited a moment. Several moments. 

A minute passed, completely butterfly-free. 

"Oh, Thank God." Arthur exhaled, as he felt a wave of warm relief wash over him. He had braced so hard for the worst, he realized he’d forgotten to breathe. 

"Arthur, you paranoid old buffoon." He shook his head, chuckling. He poured the rest of the water into the kettle and switched on the gas. 

As he fumbled in the drawer for matches, he continued to snicker at his own stupidity.    
  
How could he have been so foolish to think that he could have kept traces of Joy about? What was the shelf life of that stuff anyway? And didn't Joy have a flavour? Surely he hadn't lived long enough on the mainland to forget all that! Come on Arthur, you live 30 years of your life somewhere, you ought to know what goes on. 

He must have looked a right fool, all stoic and terrified. About to wet his pants for something as small as a drink of water. "A right fool." Arthur snickered. He put on a high-pitched falsetto. " ' _Oh no, I could be taking Joy by accident!' "_ he waved his arms f lambouyantly about. "For heaven's sake-" The more he thought of it, the funnier it was. 

Tears began budding at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision. 

All that fuss, for nothing! He'd been nearly petrified! But now! No, no he knew there was nothing to be afraid of. Now he was content, excited for his tea. He was more than content! He was jubilant. Ecstatic! Enthused! Elated! 

"Hahaha! Oh ho ho ho. Oh... shit." Mumbled Arthur, a crooked, blissful smile oozing onto his face. 

The room seemed to do a cartwheel. One minute he was looking at the range stove, the next, he was looking at the ceiling. 

_How did that get there?_ he wondered. _Ceilings aren't supposed to move like that. What a very funny house this must be._

A very funny house indeed. A very very funny house. 

"Funny house! HA!" Arthur heard his voice slurring incoherently. He coughed and gurgled, a trickle of pink frothy saliva already bubbling up from his throat and drooling out the corner of his mouth. 

He saw his finger move in front of him as he pointed at the ceiling. "Pffah! You... _you_..." He told the house. He brandished his finger. As he did so, a rainbow trailed followed it. 

"Cor!"  Arthur marveled in wonder, waving his hand back and forth to make the trail appear. 

It was a good job he was lying down now, as he realized now he had been so terribly, terribly, tired. His eyelids were like sandbags. He wasn't lying on the floor anymore, he realized in delight, but on a bed of lovely, lavender-scented marshmallows... 

"Mmmm The poor man's...sandman..." he burbled. His brow furrowed. No, no that wasn't right. 

No matter. He'd just have a little nap here. A wee kip. Just until his tea was done. He heard the hiss of the tea kettle. Soon it would be ready. 

A funny nap inside his funny house. 

His funny house, going dark, getting smaller and smaller. 

Fun house. 

"Funny, bunny, funny..." 

_ Funny, he never did find those matches. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, PLEASE leave kudos or comment and tell me what other snippets you'd like to see. I will post more if I can, but it would be nice to know if there's an audience for it! If I invited you to read, thanks for coming! I would love to hear your feedback.


End file.
